


old things, new kisses

by yakyuu_yarou



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 09:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20112871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakyuu_yarou/pseuds/yakyuu_yarou
Summary: Vergil is sick. Nero takes care of Vergil.





	old things, new kisses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GlueSalt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlueSalt/gifts).

> Part of the summer Secret Santa gift exchange, for GlueSalt! Hope you enjoy!

„This is entirely unnecessary,“ said the blanket.

Nero ignored the blanket—an old thing, formerly off-white but grey now, with the last remnants of what had once been a beautifully detailed rust-red trim around its frayed edges—in favour of setting down the tray he’d dug up from behind the bar earlier. It was a ratty old thing and cleaning it had taken him closer to half an hour than he was ever going to admit to anyone (except Dante when he came back from his job, but then only to yell at him), but it hadn’t broken on the way over from the kitchen, so he was calling it a win.

The tray had a huge bowl of spicy chicken soup sitting on it. Nero suspected that it was _meant _to be a salad bowl, but he’d worked off of his own regular appetite when preparing it, mainly because the recipe had been Credo’s, once upon a time, and that was what they’d always had to calculate for. The spoon next to the bowl was cleaner than any other cutlery the building had to offer, of that he was pretty sure—mainly because he knew that anything less would just have incited a (spectacularly stuffy) hissy fit.

Once he was sure that the wobbly coffee table next to the equally unstable couch wouldn’t break under the weight of the bowl, he gently prodded the blanket with one finger. Sort of gently, anyway. „Yeah, no, it really isn’t,'' he replied, a few beats too late, and pulled on one corner of the soft heap to reveal his father’s indignant expression underneath. Vergil’s face was flushed and his eyes and nose were puffy, and as soon as the shop’s cool air (Dante had forgotten about the heating bills _again_, the asshole) hit his skin, he sighed in apparent relief. Then his icy eyes scrunched up, his neck tensed, and a quick inhale later, he sneezed. Rather spectacularly, actually, if you asked Nero. „Point made,“ he muttered, trying and failing to suppress a triumphant little smirk that he was right and his father was wrong.

Vergil’s glare followed his movements when he tugged on the blanket more to properly drape it across his father’s chest and stomach. He was shivering, Nero noticed, but he also knew there was no way in Hell he’d take well to being told as much, not to mention the prospect of _human_ meds. So this it was: Nero leaning over him, grunting gently as he tucked him into the blanket, made sure Vergil would have no choice but to stay still … or destroy the blanket to get free. And he was _pretty_ sure that the latter wouldn‘t happen, especially considering the way he was currently smelling the edge of it, taking in the traces of Nero’s scent, intertwined with the worn, soft fabric like it was threads of its own.

He didn’t even attempt to hide his smile this time; it was a soft, warm thing, full of the care and love he was trying to show through his actions, too. He eyed his father, who was sitting up but immobile, a perfect upright blanket burrito. Just what Nero needed. He sat down on the couch’s armrest, ignoring the way it creaked suspiciously, and carefully lifted the soup tray onto his lap. „Alright, time to get you fed,“ he announced as he picked up the spoon, staring down at Vergil with hard, glittering eyes: a dare, a challenge for his father to refuse.

Vergil stared back, his pale eyes just as hard and just as glittering as Nero’s even though they were red-rimmed and puffy. For a moment Nero really thought he was going to try and get around this, to keep insisting he was fine and healthy and this—flu or cold or whatever the fuck it was—was nothing anyway. He could see the retorts and protests taking shape in his mouth: ‚I am a _demon_, Nero’ and ‚this is foolishness‘ and more, all hidden and trapped in the tension of the corners of his mouth.

Then, all of a sudden, Vergil‘s expression relaxed and he nodded almost imperceptibly. „Very well, Nero. If you insist.“ The gravelly lilt to his smooth, polished voice combined with the careful way he pronounced his name sent a soft shiver down Nero’s spine, but he ignored it in favour of dipping the spoon into the soup. He carefully brought it to Vergil’s lips, almost anxiously focussed on not spilling any on the way—and his lips split into a wide, joyful grin when his father’s eyes closed as soon as he’d taken the first spoonful into his mouth, his expression of shocked bliss one he knew all too well. He’d looked like that too, the first time Credo had given him the soup when he’d gotten sick.

The soup _helped_, immediately soothed the throat, settled the stomach and freed a stuffy nose—didn’t matter if you were human or a demon. He squashed the urge to say anything, though, and instead fed his father another spoonful, and another, and another. Slowly but certainly, he managed to feed Vergil the entire bowl of it (possibly mainly because he refused to unwrap the blanket), and when he was done, he nodded in satisfaction as he got up and set the tray back down on the table.

When he took a good look at Vergil, he couldn’t help a satisfied nod. His father looked much better already, and he suspected the soup would help his system clear out the whateverthefuck he‘d caught all the quicker, half-demonic genes and all. Vergil, on the other hand, met his gaze with eyes that were distinctly less glassy than before their little adventure in caretaking, and less hard. Instead, the lines the cold had drawn around his eyes were already smoothing back out, and his expression was almost gentle, almost open.

It was enough for Nero, who knew he was unlikely to get any verbal thanks out of his stubborn parent. So he leaned down instead, and reached out with his left hand—it was hard, sometimes, to not think of it as his human hand—to smooth the hairs that the blanket had tousled back into place (and, really, Vergil‘s lack of bristling at that had been a clear enough sign of how unwell he was). Then, just before his lips met Vergil‘s in a gentle kiss, a soft, loving thing, he murmured „you’re welcome, father“ against them.

And Vergil kissed him back.


End file.
